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The Last March of the Ironborn
Diary of Petrilly, June 24th, 1017 By Aurilus The mountain side was extra foggy today. The beacons up top along the walls were near impossible to see and the snow was too bright. On toppa all that these damn boots o’ mine need some Petrilly love whenin my patrol ends. Some new leather patching oughta do the trick. I took off me helmet and sat on a slab o rock which harbored shade from a pine up above. The chilling wind was relentless. I found myself wanting to snooze. I desperately missed my hearth and chair back in the mountain. I closed my eyes fer a moment and listened to the howls of the chasm below. Snow bein’ crunched by big dwarven boots destroyed the silence and I perked up and panned the horizon. My friend Drauk had come to save the day – the big oaf. The big lovable oaf. He marched up the snow-covered steps. “Afternoon Drauk. Fancy seein’ ya arrivin’ early fer once!” “Aye Petrilly. Git yer arse back home. Been in the sun too long.” I jumped down from me perch and looked em straight in the eye. Never good fer a dwarf woman to let her male friend get off easy without a bit o jokin. “You think you can handle halfa me shift and fufillin all of yers too? I damn think yer getting’ too old fer that nonsense.” He smirked. “Lass I’ve been handling this whole damn mountain side since me mum birthed me right into the snow. Now I won’t be repeatin’ myself ya hear?” We hugged and exchanged some good laugh and I headed down the mountain. I made it half way to the barracks entrance and I could see two guards appear through the snow. It happened. The Call. I remember droppin to me kness tremblin’. I never thought I’d live to hear… er feel that bell. I looked up dazed and utterly shaken n saw that the two guards were gone. Reckon they felt it too. I kept lyin’ to myself as I darted to the gates -small earthquake or somethin’. Back o my mind I knew though. There was NO denyin’ it. The sound o chaos filled me ears as I stepped foot into the barracks. Hit me hard – musta been thinkin’ too much to hear it before. Dwarves were screamin’ and sprinting for weapons and ale. I ne’er seen some of these folk run so damn fast in me life. Some were talkin of possible explanations fer the Call. Nothin’ sounded right to me, and no one knew what was happening or what was to come. I stood there motionless fer a moment. I had ta go. I grabbed me hammer with the tightest fist and felt me heart beat through me splint. Took a moment fer me legs to work. That Call was still shakin me bones. I knew I had no time to run home er even get close to it. I reckon as soon as i entered the city, I’d see nothin’ but mayhem. I just started to run. Run to the Call. And pray. Pray to someone for something. Pray for me life and the lives of all dwarves. Dunno why I did but my mind was not all my own at that time. Felt as if I shared it with me brethren. A spark o hope hit me jus then and I made me way to the Deepway. The city was more alive than I ever had seen. The bridges and stairwells were packed with sweaty and confused dwarves. Every home was either locked and bolted already or door frames broken and wide open. Soon the running turned from panic inta one direction. I’ll remember this till the day I die, surrounded elbow to elbow with my kind. After what seemed like moments o runnin, we reached a thick oak door, bout eighty feet tall loomin over tha crowd. Steel plating across the wood and gold and silver trimming along the edges. Twas like magic that we all moved and shoved it open together. The smell o soil was so damn good behind that door. Untouched for so long. Bats n mice scurried outta the giant hole n the mountain. Lit only by torches, we filed in. Bound fer our destiny. The Last Supper, June 24th, 1017 By Sinthaster The quaint home of Belkar the Loveless was formed of brick and bitterness. He was no felon, he was no miscreant, not at least to those who shared his lawn. Rather, he was an outcast, an exile for which he had found little solace. His house was red, squat and strong. The door was made of oak and bore the mark of fine craftsmanship. His living room was cozy, small even for a dwarf. Dust rings covered the mantle where once helmets and tokens of conquest had sat. The armor rack that stood near the pantry hall now held coats and scarves to keep the cold at bay. The weapons were in a trunk… somewhere. Whatever semblance Belkar had of an “adventurer” had died in Rhivic. Never again would he wield his banner. Never again. The house was built some 3 miles south of the city gates of Valrose along the King’s Road. He had no desire to live amongst the prattle and bustle of human expanse, yet he could not ever bring himself to invite total isolation. Belkar, for all his life, had always wanted companionship; he was simply too afraid to reach for it. There was a knock at the door. The rasp was something Belkar was not commonly privy to, as the Dwarf had not seen visitors for many years. He strained against the aching of his arthritis as he stood from his leather chair. Normally, he would have simply ignored the call. Today, however, was much different. Today, Belkar had a date. As he opened the door he was met with sunlight and the silhouette of a suitor. A Dwarf woman, broad of smile and slim of shoulder, stood afore his form. “Please,” Belkar said, fighting his stammering tongue, “do come in, Frótha.” ……… She was everything he was not. Her skin was fair and inviting like the still waters of a summer’s dawn. His? Marred, cracked and burned. Her hair was auburn and rich and smelled of vanilla cavendish tobacco. His? Well, he just hoped he didn’t smell at all. She seemed unreal, like “Belkar, this food is lovely,” Frótha said. Belkar jumped with a start, “Er, thank ye kindly. I don’t make food for company often, so I s’pose I’m glad I didn’t just poison ya.” Frótha laughed. “Well, you would need a lot of poison to take me down, anyways.” “Oh?” Belkar said. He noticed the jovial tone that bounced across her Highborn accent. Normally he would have felt conscious of his gruff, lowborn speech. He felt no such trepidation tonight. Frótha reached down into her bag and produced a hefty keg and slapped it on to the table. Belkar, surprised, looked down at her bag, which had now deflated greatly. “Er, iffin you don’t mind me askin’,” he said, “was that all you had in there?” She began to spin the keg to orient it for pouring. “What else do I need to bring on a date?” Belkar beamed with joy. “Now yer really speakin’ my language!” ……… The night was long and filled with merriment. At the end, Frótha had said a tired, reluctant farewell. She kissed him on his scarred cheek. He did not want her to leave. As Belkar retired to his chair, pipe in hand, it came. The Call. No Dwarf had ever heard it before, yet all Dwarves knew its song. This absence of sound, this silent thrum, shook his stony bones and rocked his soul. He would have to make a choice, now. But, to leave… that would mean he would not see Frótha again. Surely she would return. She would come back to him; Belkar the Loveless would be loveless no more. Belkar lit up his pipe, and the Call went unanswered. The Story We Weave, June 24th, 1017 By Calicana It was hard, for a dwarf, to weave a needle in and out of cloth. Their hands are rather stocky and stubby, unable to maneuver the needle precisely. Darlaah had a lot of work to do. Very frustrating, ceaseless work. She was chosen to repair a tapestry of old, one of very few, because she was voted to have the smallest hands in the colony. Darlaah would disagree. “Being voted smallest hands dunt make mah hands the smallest.” she mumbled under her breath. Darlaah Bardoom was old. Her silver beard was tied up in tight braids. Her face was wrinkled and worn, clear creases left from her often furrowed brow. But as she brushed her hand over the cloth that her needle would do work on, she smiled. It was more delicate than anything most dwarves would encounter in their lives. Much softer than the burlap many wore on their backs, much more intricate than the scraps used to sleep under. Darlaah, although she might refute it, was chosen because she was old enough to respect the story the tapestry told. It lay on her lap, draping down her short legs and over her feet, almost covering the floor of the room. The border looked almost like braided dwarven hair, orange with fire. The details were a labyrinth of tangled lines. “No dwarf could’ave crafted this.” She thumbed one of the holes. “And now ah gotta fix it.” Darlaah sighed and took her needle to the top of the piece. A bright green bell built above a network of tunnels and halls. The halls lead down, in many knots, towards a cage. Between the bars of the cage, the only thing stitched were eyes. Big, black eyes, the darkest thing on the entire tapestry. A shiver ran down Darlaah’s spine just thinking about what could be kept in that cage. If it still existed in these tunnels. If it would ever be freed. She worked diligently for what seemed like hours. Her meaty hands got the hang of the stitches. She worked to mend holes and fill in color that had been worn away. She poked herself with the needle a few times, but it was nothing a dwarf couldn’t handle. “Darlaah!” A rough voice made its way through the doorway of her room, followed by a squat dwarven man. “You’ve been workin’ hard. Take a break, Darlaah. Eat sumthin.” “Yeeh, yer right.” Darlaah stood as he left, folding the tapestry to leave her unfinished bits on top. She left it on the chair she was sitting on, the eyes between the bars of the cage left staring up at her. She felt another shiver coming on, only it was more than that. It started in both her toes and her head, a tingly feeling, a physical ringing almost. Her vision went white for a moment. The feeling moved down and up her body, meeting somewhere in her gut. When her vision came back, she was staring at her hands. They were blurry at first, but she slowly regained focus. Suddenly, her gut feeling moved back up to her head, and she heard it. The ringing of the bell was crystal clear. Her jaw fell open, tears forming in her eyes. She looked back at the tapestry. The cage lay open. The eyes were gone. Drauk Snowhammer, Last of his Line, July 16th, 1017 By Sinthaster Three weeks, now. If the Seven are real, even if they’re listenin’, I don’ think they can hear us all the way down here. The last time I saw the sun and snow was when the Call had sounded. Since then, I’ve been stuck down here in the Deepway fightin’ somethin’ I never thought I’d see; our Dark brothers. We’ve fought goblins, orcs, tunnelers and all manner of beastie. But other Dwarves? With weapons of Dragonbone and magic that eats yer skin and mind? No, that’s new. I’ve lost so many. I can feel their anguish under my feet and above my head, coursing through the stone like a chill along yer spine. Petrilly, wherever you are, stay safe. “Talkin’ ter yerself, Drauk?” Magnar said. “I’m fine, and I told ya to go back to sleep.” “With all that chatterin’ how can I? At least talk about somethin’ interestin’, not how sad and lonely you are.” I was sad. I was lonely. I looked down at the base of the incline where we now stood watch. The barricades we had erected of stone and broken spears were now bolstered by the bodies of our own kin. Even in death, they would defend their ancestral home. “We’re all that’s left,” I said. “How can you not be sad?” Magnar tried a laugh, but it seemed hollow. “Many of my own have gone back to the stone. Perhaps I’m just hardened, aye?” I said nothin’. He could say what he wanted, but his eyes couldn’t lie. Not to me. “So,” he said, possibly to change the subject, “any sight of the bastards?” “No, and no news from either Dol-Baror or any other soldiers for the past 4 days.” “Well at least we’re not gettin’ attacked. Borin’ and alive is better than excitin’ and dead, I’d wager.” I couldn’t hear him. I didn’t care to. Did anyone else know what was happenin’? The humans? Gildor had ceased most trade with the city sometime before the Call, but had our gates been locked down completely? I didn’t even know what was goin’ on up there. For all we knew, the Uzhar could have snuck around and have already taken the throne of the Mountain King. I tried not to linger on the thought, though it gnawed at me still. Maybe the Elves ‘felt’ somethin’ as they so often do. They’re probably smilin’ at our misfortune. “Drauk, is that you?” I was stunned at my carelessness. I spun on my hills to focus on the bottom of our makeshift camp, my weapons brought to bare. It was then I strained ta see a ragged group o’ survivors makin’ their way up the incline. Their faces were hard as stone. “Aye, an’ who might you be, friends?” “Grennur Goldhollow, and these are my men,” he said with a Gildorian accent, gesturing behind him to the sullen three Dwarves that seemed to barely stand. They looked as if they hadn’t seen a day’s rest since the Call. Poor bastards. “We both trained under Drune Lunablood.” “By the stone,” I said, a sudden realization on my mind, “which way did you and yer boys come from?” “We cleared out the ninth tunnel north of the Umberwine, then the eighth, and now we’re here.” “Cleared out?” I gawked. “We’ve seen nuthin’ but wave after wave of those gray cunts for the last week.” “Something changed,” Grennur said, slowly making his way up the incline. His soldiers followed at a steady, sore pace. One of them trailed blood. “They seem to be focusing their forces elsewhere now.” “You don’t think their forces are wearin’ thin, do ye?” Grennur shook his head. “They still outnumber us three to one in most caverns. No, it’s something else. They stopped trying to reach the city.” Magnar’s haggard voice caught our ears. “They were never tryin’ to reach the city…” I turned ta face the witherin’ Dwarf. “What do ya mean? We’ve been holdin’ off this entry for weeks, why would they throw so many spears at us otherwise?” Magnar did something I never thought I’d live to see. A tear, thick like slag, carved a line in his dirt-caked face. “They pinned us down, used that infernal Worm, to keep us from their ultimate prize. I’m ashamed I didn’t think of it before.” “What then?!” I roared. “They’re going to wake up their King.” I felt my blood run cold. “That’s… that’s just a legend.” Magnar stared us down with the intensity of all our ancestors. “If they succeed, then Lancerus is doomed.” Autumn's Warden, July 24th, 1017 By Nex Belain The side of the cliff was beginning to take shape. No longer was it merely a cliff side, it was now a fortress on the eve of completion. Dwarfs and men alike hung side by side from thick hempen ropes to mold the cliff face with iron and wood; their efforts were a daily grind against the winds of the Sea and the perilous rocks bellow but they still they toiled on. Jerviss breathed in the fresh smell of construction as he walked the edge, gazing down over the cliff to see the fruits of his long and arduous labor. His team had been hard at work since the attack on Alesia the previous year and finally things were coming together, even quicker than he originally hoped. Soon these walls would protect the great people of Arn from the evils''they so greatly feared. His greatly unkempt beard blew in the wind in a rustle of grey but he seemed not to care. Jerviss' stubby fingers etched a multitude of adjustments into his construction plans. As he turned to go to the Warden's Tower he was met with a head of his construction crew, Koni the Firestone. She was a small dwarf women, even by dwarf standards, and stood with a posture of discomfort. Her thick brown hair fell in multiple braids upon her back and she kept her beard shorn close to her face. However, the work of the last few days showed upon her face, the stubble of a fresh beard sprouted like the charred remains of a burned forest. "Koni." Jerviss addressed her when she met his strides. "Reports." He did not question. "Warden." She responded while fumbling through many loose papers. "Things are progressing quite well below the surface and the men have been keeping pace with our own. ''You can shave and clean my young Dwarf but you will never be human. ''Jerviss eyed her stubble as she gave the report. "Very well, tis good to see ''men match the pace o' my best builders." He cast a sharp gaze to Koni, "Tell our folk they can move a little quicker now. I bargain a place o' little higher the moderate, see how these Arnish men handle a true challenge." He let out a snort laugh and patted Koni on the shoulder, albeit a little to hard. She stumbled slightly sending a few papers scattering to the wind. "Aye Warden, it will be done." She scurried off to collect her papers and left Jerviss to his checkup. As she hurried off he called out to her to meet in his chambers later that night for a good spell of music. It has been so long since I had a good play. ''Jerviss reflected while approaching the Warden's Tower. Hardly a tower from the outside, most would say. The Warden's Tower stood but a few Human men tall from the ground, only enough to view over the walls that stretched around them, horseshoed to cover all sides. All but the one that ended in a long drop. The building itself shot down through the ground almost to the lowest level of the prison which stood no more than a few moments drop from the sea below. The sea of jagged rocks. From his tower, Jerviss could reach any part of the prison by way of the main spiral staircase. He entered through the man-sized door on the east side of the tower and gazed down the long spiral stairs; the faint light of torches illuminated in a spiral that paralleled the stairs all the way to the bottom. He leaned over the slim rope to look over the edge at the massive drop before making his way down a few flights to his chambers. As he walked he imagined the fall down yet felt no empathy for the prisoners that would soon face that potential drop everyday. His chamber door was of no special make, a simple wooden door cast with iron bars and a heavy lock with a small slot with which he could look out from the inside. ''All my travels have lead me here...here, to create the finest work the south of Lancerus has ever seen. ''Jerviss produced a heavy ring of keys from his belt and sorted through them. The heavy lock clanked and echoed through the great tower signaling to all that the Warden had returned to his chambers. ''No doubt they will be swarmin' for me approval on this or that before long... ''His mind fell to the work ahead as the door slammed shut. He sat down at his desk, cluttered with letters and future plans; he pushed open a clear spot and lay his smoking pipe out with a bag of the finest Arnish leaf. The tobacco burned smooth and strong in his throat before he sent it out his nostrils like dragon's breath. Pulling his notebook close he transferred the progress of the cliff-side cells from his day planner and noted that the remaining, lowest level cells were almost complete. ''Another moon's turn perhaps... The smoke had filled his chamber by the time his quill had stopped and a great sense of pride washed over him. He tapped out his pipe and swapped it out with a thick rich ale. He spilled it carelessly into his mouth and droplets remained specked throughout his beard but he cared not; the smell of it soothed his old heart as much as the taste. Just as the last drops ran dry there was a knock at the door. "Enter!" He bellowed over the brim of his bottle. The door swung open, clearing the room of much of the smoke that had lingered. Koni came forth waving the smoke from her beardless face and was followed by another of Jerviss' construction crew, Bagan, a gruff, grizzled Dwarf from the Saunter Mound with jet black hair and one eye (lost to a goblin in his youth). The two came and took a seat on either side of the table. "Shall we play." Koni asked as she pulled a wooden flute from within her vest. "First we shall drink." Bagan said, pulling the stopper from his wine-skin. Jerviss waved the drink off, "No' for me." Not because of his already drained bottle but because Bagan had an aggravating love of the worst brews in Lancerus. "Ver' well. More fo' me." He drank a heavy gulp before turning to tune his lute. Jerviss smiled, "A moment Koni." He pulled out his pipe for one more smoke before they began. Koni was whistling a small tune on her flute as Jerviss packed his pipe and Bagan drank. Once they were settled Jerviss placed the pipe on the table and reached behind him to grab the hand-horn that hung from the wall. The two others readied their instruments and awaited his lead. Jerviss gripped the horn in one hand and cupped the other inside the bell. With a deep breathe he blew slowly into the mouthpiece and a deep, low note spread and bounced off all corners of the room. Bagan plucked a few singular strings in tune with the low horn and shortly after Koni rang in with the sweet whistle of her flute. The three sounds melded into a chorus of magic; the three had only played a handful of times together but no one would have been able to tell as they played with practiced hands. The horn grew louder and the flute backed it up while the lute strummed to keep the pace. Throughout the Tower music echoed into every chamber, it flew though each corridor and burst through every door. The trio played for what felt like days on end as the music engulfed their bodies. As the end of the tune approached Jerviss broke off into a solo of improvisation, Koni and Bagan both followed him without missing a beat. As they drove to the finale they felt their hearts drop and the sound cut off in an abrupt stop. Koni snapped her flute in half and fell to the ground in shock. Bagan plucked a string so hard it broke and slashed at the fleshy patch of his missing eye. Jerviss gripped his horn so tight that by the time he threw it to the ground it held the shape of his hands imprinted on it. Koni and Bagan looked to each other and then to Jerviss who sat with his hands on the table, a faint look of confusion in his eyes. The look was gone in an instant as he grabbed for his pipe and stoked it, not uncalmly. Koni was the first to speak. "I...I have never..." Bagan patted his eye cut then stood, grabbed a large war-ax from the wall and left without a word. Koni looked to Jerviss who sat in silence and stoked his pipe. "Was that...could it be?" She could not form it into words. Jerviss pulled the pipe from his mouth and blew out another dragon's breath. "Aye." He stoked again and blew an even bigger cloud. "The call...." Category:World Lore